


Thaw

by vienn_peridot



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cave-In, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hand Feeding, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:56:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodimus manipulates Drift into confessing his feelings for a certain Medic. Being the helpful friend he is Roddy then sets out to do his darnedest to set the two up.<br/>He really should have checked out the local geology first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Confession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salticidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salticidae/gifts).



> This is a Giftfic for Armcontrolnerve of Tumblr.  
> Seasons greetings from your Secret Santa! I hope this is fluffy enough for you ^.^;

# Chapter One- A Confession

“So what’s got _you_ so down lately, Drift?” Rodimus asked.

They were in the Captain’s quarters aboard the Lost Light. Rodimus sprawled on his stomach across the berth while Drift occupied a large, obscure piece of furniture that might be termed the bastard offspring of a divan and an overstuffed couch if you looked at it sideways and squinted.

Rodimus had acquired some particularly nice Engex at their last stopover and had generously agreed to share it with Drift. As bribes went, it was fairly transparent. However Drift wasn’t about to refuse his friend a quite night in, e _specially_ when the alternative would probably involve Rodimus table-dancing at Swerve’s or something equally embarrassing.

“It’s not your problem.” Drift said rather rudely.

“Look, Drift. You’re my best mate.” Rodimus began; using what he probably _thought_ was a patient tone. “And something is bugging you. If you have a problem that’s bugging you, then since I’m your friend it bugs me when there is something bugging you so it becomes _my_ problem too.”

There. Brilliant and undeniable logic. There was something rather beautiful about it and Rodimus stopped speaking to admire it for a moment.

“Roddy, you’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah but I’m nowhere _near_ as badly off as you.”

“So you’re not going to tell me?”

“Will you shut up about it if I do?”

“ _Of_ course.” His trademarked Rodimus Grin accompanied that blatant lie.

Drift sighed, rubbing at his faceplates. That was absolute scrap. He knew Rodimus better than to believe him. In fact, this entire little evening had probably been an excuse just to pry Drift’s troubles out of him. Fraggit, he thought he’d been hiding it better than this! If erratically oblivious Rodmius had noticed, who else?

Dropping his hands, Drift raised an optical ridge at the Captain. Rodimus rolled onto his back, helm hanging off the side of the berth to grin upside-down at Drift as he felt blindly around for the mostly-empty cube he’d left safely on the floor. His EM Field reached out to brush Drift’s fuzzily, cheerful and devoid of malice.

“Ok you’re right, I won’t.” Rodimus’ turbopuppy optics were still effective even when seen from the wrong way up. It wasn’t fair. “But I _could_ help you with it. Ya know, _if_ you tell me.”

Drift groaned and flopped sideways on the couch-thing, lying on his back so he didn’t have to face the pleading look being aimed at him. He inspected the ceiling; half-wishing it would cave in and rescue him from this conversation. Creaking and rustling came from Rodimus’ berth as the Captain moved around. Taking a deep in-vent, Drift made his decision. He was probably going to implode if he didn’t tell someone anyway, and he’d rather talk to Rodimus _now_ than be sent to Rung about it later.

“You won’t tell anyone, right?” Drift asked, not bothering to sit up.

“Cross my spark.” Rodimus answered before Drift had even finished speaking, cutting across the last few words of his sentence.

 “It’s Ratchet.” Drift mumbled, barely audible.

Rodimus’ head popped into Drift’s field of view, startling a squawk out of the Swordsmech as he struck out defensively. Rodimus dodged the blow easily despite being thoroughly overcharged. He leaned over the back of his couchbeast, safely out of smacking range. Light reflected from Drift’s sharpened denta as he bared them and growled up at his friend.

“What did he do?” The Captain’s voice was filled with a mixture of morbid curiosity and concern. “You don’t need me to sic Ultra Magnus on him, do you?”

“Be serious.” Drift grumped, glaring at the other mech.

“I _am_ being serious!” Rodimus was the picture of wounded innocence. “He’s the CMO and you’re my Third in Command. Because of that, if he’s caused trouble for you it becomes an issue of Command Staff discipline and I _have_ to deal with it.”

More brilliant logic.

Except that the implications of this conclusion were _far_ more serious than his previous one.

“Honestly, Rod! He hasn’t _done_ anything!”

“Like slag he hasn’t!” Rodimus leaned down to poke Drift in the sternal plating. “You’re been acting weird for _weeks_ now. Talk to me. Please?”

Groaning, Drift brought his hands up to cover his faceplates. He had difficulty saying ‘No’ to things, desperate to be accepted as the mech he was now and escape the shadows of his past. Rodimus took advantage of this a lot more often than he should, _especially_ when it came to getting out of some boring duty or other. The Swordsmech knew it would be better to just own up now. He was tired of this and besides, Rodimus would just keep doing slag like this to force a confession out of him.

Taking advantage of his Third’s distraction, Rodimus slithered over the squishy back of the couch and somehow wriggled about to get himself seated with Drift’s helm on his lap. It was a familiar situation, except Rodimus was usually the one using Drift’s lap as a pillow while ranting away about one thing or another.

The familiar position put the nail in the coffin so far as Drift’s resistance was concerned.

“He. . . I. . . I just,” Drift tried to sort his muddled thoughts into words, hiding behind the safety of his hands so he didn’t have to look at Rodimus while he confessed. “Well, first I thought it was just gratitude because he saved my life back in Rodion.”

The dam was broken. The whole embarrassing thing came pouring out.

“And I want to thank him but every time I try I just lose my nerve and everything I want to say just leaves my processors.” Drift sighed deeply through his vents, “And _then_ I thought it was guilt because of what I did as a Decepticon and I wanted to make it up to him, all the extra work I made for him that wore his hands out faster. But. . . But it’s not that either.”

Drift tensed when a hand settled on his helm crest. When Rodimus didn’t move it after a while Drift relaxed. It was weird, but it felt nice. He’d wondered why Rodimus always grabbed his hand and shoved it onto his helm when he flopped on Drift’s lap like this. Now he knew why.

“Every time I see him my spark does this stupid _. . .”_ Drift removed a hand from his faceplates and waved it vaguely, making a sort of jumping motion with the fingers, trying to use is EM Field to illustrate what he meant. “ _Thing_ that gets worse when I try to talk to him. _Primus_ , I come out with the stupidest slag imaginable just to get a reaction. To get him to say something to me, I don’t even care if he’s tearing my helm off or cursing me from here to Cybertron and back so long as he _notices_ that I’m _there_.”

Drift stopped talking, his vents hitching embarrassingly as he fought the urge to scream or cry or maul Rodimus’ couch in his frustration at Ratchet, his own stupid spark and life in general. What the slag WAS this?!

He hoped Rodimus was sober enough to sort out what was going on, because Drift himself had no idea.

“Wow Drift, you’ve got it _bad_.” Coming from anyone else that would have been condescending, but somehow even though he was almost falling-down overcharged Rodimus sounded nothing but sympathetic.

“Got _what_ bad?” Drift dropped his hands to his thoracic armour and glared up at Rodimus, probing with his EM Field to see if he could get an explanation.

Rodimus appeared to be ignoring him, easily resisting Drift’s Engex-blurred attempts to read his field. In fact, the Captain wasn’t even looking at him, staring thoughtfully off into the middle distance. He didn’t look anywhere near as drunk as he’d been acting a few moments ago.

“You know what? I think I have an idea.” Rodimus said thoughtfully, tapping Drift’s helm crest lightly with his thumb.

“What?” Drift asked cautiously. He pulled his EM Field in tight to his frame, torn between curiosity and dread of what he would hear.

“We’re coming up on a system that has a planet we could probably stop to take a look at. Uninhabited, but there’s some interesting stuff at surface level that might come in handy if we continue to go through our supplies at the rate we have been.” Rodimus pulled a face at the wall of his quarters, “The place is listed as being safe for mechanical lifeforms, no major hazards to worry about so we’ll be able to go down in groups of two.”

Oh slag. Drift could see where this was going.

“I’ll send you and Ratchet down together, that’ll be plenty of time for you to talk to him.” Rodimus confirmed what Drift had suspected. “He needs to get his aft out of Medbay more often, anyway. When _Ultra Magnus_ accuses you of overwork you know you’re doing too much. So all you’ll need to do is think of what you want to say to him!”

Rodimus looked so pleased with his little plan that Drift didn’t have the heart to talk him out of it. While a part of him wanted it, the rest of him was screaming to volunteer for shipside duty to get out of it.

Still, the lure of Ratchet’s exclusive company for however long they were planetside was _extremely_ tempting.

“If this goes to Pit you’re going to owe me big time.” Drift grumbled, extending his wobbly EM Field to show that while he _was_ grateful to Rodimus, he was still dubious about the whole thing.

“It won’t.” Was the blithe reply.


	2. Planetside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roddy had a good idea after all!  
> Or did he?

# Chapter Two – Planetside

It seemed that Rodimus was right.

So far, at least.

Drift trailed along behind Ratchet, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings as the Medic tried to manipulate the handheld scanner with hands that stuck occasionally. Every time a joint failed to obey a motion command the medic’s EM Field went flat and hard. He would forcibly straighten or bend the offending joint and continue on.

Even though the CMO gave no outward sign that the deterioration of his hands was bothering him, he became noticeably more irritated each time it happened. As much as Drift wanted to help the older mech, he stubbornly resisted the urge to offer to help.

If he did, Ratchet would inevitably see it as mollycoddling and react badly.

The _last_ thing he wanted right now was for Ratchet to be angry with him.

They’d been on the surface for about a quarter of one of the local daylight cycles and Drift _still_ hadn’t figured out what he wanted to say to Ratchet, let alone gather the courage to really speak to him. His stupid spark kept doing that lurching flip-flop even when trading the bare minimum of words necessary for carrying out their assignment. He was more nervous than he could ever remember being in the Medic’s presence and just couldn’t work out _why_.

This particular planet’s rotational speed meant that it had a day/night cycle about half of what the Lost Light ran on. This was frustrating the slag out of everyone on board. It greatly reduced the amount of time they could spend on any part of the planet surface, meaning more time cramped into the shuttle flying to or from the surface. Nobody wanted to be running around a strange planet in the dark. Certain reactions to the unexpected were ingrained after millennia of war and it was simply safer to avoid circumstances that could lead to an accident.

Drift’s optics were pondering the smooth red panel shielding Ratchet’s upper back when the same finger joint seized for the third time in less than a minute, finally igniting Ratchet’s temper. The CMO exploded into a torrent of curses, making a fist with the offending hand and slamming it against his thigh to jolt the jammed mechanism back into place. Drift cringed at the force of the blow, his own hand aching in sympathy.

“This is ridiculous!” Ratchet groused, “Rodimus must be glitched, sending me down here. Any idiot with half a processor could do this!”

Drift didn’t know what to say to that, so he stayed quiet, turning in place to scan the skyline. They were in a small valley between rolling, rock-studded hills that made moving in their altmodes extremely difficult. Part of him envied Cyclonus the ability to fly and avoid long hours of plodding. Then again, he’d been paired with Whirl. Yeah, in this instance plodding was _far_ better than flying.

“Has your vocaliser shorted out or something?” Ratchet asked suspiciously, suddenly appearing in Drift’s line of sight. “You’ve been abnormally quiet today.”

Drift cycled his optics desperately, trying to shift his depth of focus away from the middle-distance and onto the frowning faceplates in front of him. He felt a brief, protoform-deep tickle as Ratchet reflexively ran a diagnostic scan over him.

“No, no. It’s just good to be off ship.” Drift said hurriedly, “The hills are giving my coding a few twitches about line of sight. I keep thinking someone might be using them to ambush us, even though the war is over.”

Ratchet’s optics went hard, little lines etching themselves into the faceplates around them. Too late, Drift realised he’d gone and put his pede in his mouth. The medic’s EM Field snapped back out of sensing range and he turned away from the Swordsmech.

“When we find a place that doesn’t give you the _‘twitches’_ ” Ratchet made a sarcastic motion when he emphasised the word, “We can stop for a break. Gonna have to go back the way we came to get out of this area. Something in these slagging rocks disrupts long-range comms.”

Experimentally, Drift tried to send a frag-you message to Rodimus as he dutifully resumed his place behind Ratchet. After a few moments the comm bounced back to him half-corrupted and without any markers to indicate that it had reached its destination.

The speedster cycled a deep draught of the nitrogen-rich atmosphere through his vents, hoping they wouldn’t have to hang around _too_ long waiting for the shuttle. He got cold very easily when he wasn’t moving fast. At least he could practice katas to keep his temperature up if Rodimus was late. Maybe Ratchet wouldn’t mind watching?

As for Ratchet, he was snarling low in his vocaliser again. He stuffed the scanner into a subspace pocket with a violent motion so he could yank his thumb back into alignment.

Something about the terrain immediately underpede sent alarm bells screaming through Drift’s processor. The ground was sending weird vibrations back to the sensors in his pedes and lower legs. It felt strange in a way that only increased his sense of unease with every step they took.

A low cracking sound that was more felt than heard sent Drift sprinting blindly towards Ratchet. He shouted the CMO’s name at the top of his vocaliser, trying to warn him of the danger right beneath them.

Hearing the shouting, Ratchet turned to look at Drift with confusion written all over his faceplates.

The thin rock ceiling of the sinkhole they had unknowingly wandered onto wasn’t able to support the combined weight of the pair of Cybertronians. _Especially_ not with one of them possessing the extra-dense and reinforced construction of a Medic.

Drift slammed into the medic just as the ground crumbled beneath their pedes, sending the pair plunging straight down in a torrent of rock and loose soil.

Ratchet’s startled shout seemed to hang in the air, echoing in Drift’s audios even over the roar of tumbling earth. He wrapped himself around the Medic’s frame as best he could; acting on terrified instinct to provide the older mech with as much protection as he could.

Completely disoriented, Drift tried to simultaneously protect Ratchet from the slabs of rock still coming in from above and get himself underneath the medic so Drift’s frame would take the brunt of their impact with the bottom of the pit.

Whenever they found it. It felt like they had been falling forever.

It didn’t matter to Drift if he got hurt. Ratchet would be able to help. Ratchet always helped. The important thing was to protect Ratchet.

When they finally reached the bottom they hit _hard._

The last thought in Drift’s processors before the impact knocked him offline was the horrifying realisation that Ratchethad hit the ground first.


	3. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumbling a-tumbling a-tumbling down.

# Chapter Three - Falling

Ratchet had finally lost all patience with his failing hands and this _ridiculous_ excuse for an assignment when Drift started bellowing his designation.

“RATCHEEEEET!”

Familiar pedesteps thundered towards Ratchet as he turned towards his assigned partner, engine growling with irritation. The unexpected impact of Drift moving at something near two thirds of his top speed turned the question Ratchet was about to ask into a startled yelp.

_What the slag?!_

The swordsmech tackled Ratchet just as the ground beneath their pedes opened up to swallow them both whole. Ratchet’s gyros swirled sickeningly, trying and failing to find out where the slag ‘down’ had gone as the universe devolved into a sickening swirl of chaos, noise and pain.

Surprisingly there wasn’t as much of the pain as he had been expecting, even taking his reinforced armour into account. He felt Drift’s distressed EM field trying to completely envelop his own and realised that the younger mech was using his own frame to shield Ratchet from the debris falling alongside them. Even though they were in an extremely nasty situation the fierce protectiveness in Drift’s EM Field was rather touching.

_Fragging idiot._

Ratchet hit the ground first, pulverising some of the soft broken rock into powder as the momentum of their fall was transmitted through his frame into the ground below. The force of the impact gave his systems a severe shock even if it wasn’t enough to send him into a full shutdown. Medic systems were so over-endowed with redundancies that it was almost impossible to offline one unless you knew _exactly_ what you were doing.

Drift wasn’t quite so lucky.

The younger mech was designed to go fast and react faster; not deal with panicky, thrashing patients and continue on as if he hadn’t just copped an accidental blow or six to the helm.

Slamming into the ground sent the Speedster into the land of the blissfully offline, even _with_ the dubious cushion of Ratchet to take some of the impact. A large slab of rock wedged itself precariously over them, protecting their entwined frames from the final stages of the cave-in.

Attempts to scan Drift for damage forcibly reminded the medic that even though he was still online, his systems were _extremely_ unhappy and were going to take a while to recover from the hammering they’d just taken.

It was _extremely_ unpleasant for Ratchet to lie pinned beneath Drift’s unconscious frame and wait for his own systems to slowly stabilise. Even though they’d come down with the largest chunks of ex-ground during the collapse smaller pieces were still pattering down on them. Every now and then he would hear the impact of another small piece of debris ricocheted past the imperfect shelter of the trapped slab of rock, colliding with Drift’s frame.

They were both going to have a fragload of dents after this, even if by some miracle they managed to avoid major injury.

The occasional thump and reverberation of a late-falling piece of rock made the pile shift around them while Ratchet struggled against the urge to panic. Growling in frustration he instated the medical programming overrides which would control untoward physical responses and any reactions to the situation that could impair his ability to treat his patient.

Or in this case, not panic while being stuck under an unconscious speedster somewhere near the bottom of a cave-in.

As time crawled on and the last of the cave-in dribbled to a halt around them, Ratchet realised he had a whole new set of worries to deal with.

Drift was a speedster build.

His cooling systems were highly efficient; designed to quickly dump the excess heat produced by racing before it reached dangerous levels, therefore Drift’s frame excelled at cooling itself down but _didn’t_ do so well at preserving heat when he wasn’t moving. On the Lost Light it wasn’t uncommon to find Drift and Rodimus rolled into thermal blanket cocoons when they were required to sit still for long periods of time.

As they had been lying at the bottom of this hole for quite a while now, Ratchet worrying that he could actually _feel_ Drift’s frame cooling. When his scanning systems finally returned to functionality they only confirmed it.

_Core Temperature: 5% below Standard._

The younger mech’s core temperature was definitely dropping. If Ratchet couldn’t get Drift online before his core temperature dropped below 75% of his standard resting temperature then the speedster wouldn’t online again outside a fully-outfitted Medbay.

The first thing Ratchet discovered after regaining full motor function was that both of his arms were trapped; crushed in between the glass of his chestplate and the smooth curves of Drift’s armour. The Speedster’s helm was pressed into the space beside his. If he strained his optics sideways Ratchet could see the newly pitted plane of an audial flare reflecting the faint blue light. There wasn’t a great deal of wiggle room on either side of where he was pressed into the ground. Ratchet didn’t want to risk upsetting the delicate balance of the piled debris and triggering a small landslide by exploiting it too quickly.

A few exploratory twitches Ratchet discovered that his worries were moot: He was so firmly pinned beneath Drift he couldn’t move anyway.

According to his chronometer it had taken Ratchet a fair amount of time to recover from the fall; however their patrol still wasn’t due to end for another two joors. With nothing better to do until Drift returned to the waking world Ratchet tried to comm the Lost Light. Something weird deposited in the soft sedimentary rock around them was still disrupting his comms. Some fragmented pieces came back to the medic; however the rest had apparently vanished.

Time crawled.

Trapped as he was by his unconscious crewmate and several tons of rock, Ratchet could do nothing but lie there and wait for Drift to wake up. The speedster’s frame cooled steadily as the stone around them sucked away additional precious heat on top of what his frame habitually shed. Ratchet tried running his engine harder than usual for a while in order to warm Drift from below. It didn’t make an appreciable difference, so he gave it up as a waste of energy better saved for keeping the younger mech conscious.

_If_ he woke up.

When another scan of Drift’s frame revealed that the swordsmech’s core temperature was now 85% of normal and dropping fast, dread started to creep around the of calm the medical programs.

Sending out another desperate volley of comm messages in hopes that even _one_ would get through, Ratchet started to worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MURRY CRUSTMOOSE EVE


	4. The Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift isn't really 'at home' right now.  
> Turns out he's also a bit ticklish.  
> Ratchet is VERY glad of the medical programs artificially increasing his store of patience.

# Chapter Four – The Rabbit Hole

Drift came back to full awareness very slowly.

Damage notices started flowing past on his HUD before he was even able to focus on them properly. The swordsmech’s long familiarity with pain told him that nothing vital was damaged, he was just extremely battered and some lines were pinched. It seemed that insisting on armour slightly stronger than War-Grade during that last rebuild was a good idea, after all.

A little extra weight was _definitely_ worth it when it came to keeping everything intact.

Careful attempts to wiggle about informed Drift that there was a heavy something on his back and another heavy something pinning his legs. A _third_ something underneath his frame was slightly bigger than he was, and nice and warm as well. Warm was definitely good. Drift’s chronometer told him he’d been offline for a significant amount of time, long enough for his core temperature to have dropped low enough that he was in need of a good hard drive to bring it back up to an optimal level.

Trying to get his optics online was definitely too much effort right now. He didn’t want to see exactly how badly he was trapped and he honestly didn’t feel like moving, anyway. Not with that nice warm thing pressed along the entire front of his frame. It was extremely nice when compared to the chill seeping into him from the heavy objects above. Drift decided that he’d stay here for a little bit longer instead of trying to push away those cold, heavy things and get up straight away.

Purring dreamily, the swordsmech tried to snuggle deeper into the warm metallic mattress, getting a startled noise and a familiar growl in his audio.

“About time you woke up. You should have been online cycles ago.” It was Ratchet and he sounded grumpy.

Of course, a grumpy Ratchet was situation normal.

“Don’ care.” Drift said, trying to burrow deeper into the source of warmth and failing. “’ll go for drive in a bit. Comfy here.”

“Drift,” The Medic’s voice was so close to his audial flare Drift could almost _feel_ the worry in the other mech’s voice.

Wait, Ratchet was worried? Worried and not yelling?

_That_ wasn’t good.

“Drift, has your memory cache booted up?” Ratchet spoke slowly and clearly, the sound of his voice making the sensors housed in the speedster’s audial flares twitch. “Can you tell me if it has?”

Humming thoughtfully, Drift poked around and realised that the sluggish boot-up had completely bypassed his short-term memory storage. He made an annoyed noise and a warm breeze filled the small air pockets around him along with the sound of someone sighing through half-blocked vents.

“’Kay gonna look‘t now.” The speedster slurred.

Absently wondering why his vocaliser wasn’t working properly, Drift manually activated the short-term memory replay.

_Mission briefing/Ratchet’s here?/Work in pairs/Frag Rodimus_ wasn’t _joking/Ratch doesn’t look happy/Shuttle drop/ **Mute** it Whirl/Stupid rocks, stupid walking/Ratchet looks really nice in this light/ **Say** something to him you half-bit/Huh what do you know comms **are** down/ **Say something!** /Wait what was that?/OH SLAG/RATCHET!_

The replay woke Drift up a little but didn’t bring him back to full awareness. Now that he knew what had happened he turned his attention to the little blinking notices in the corner of his HUD.

What he saw made his energon and coolant turn to liquid nitrogen in his lines.

**[ _Energon and coolant circulation compromised; Reaction Time Compromised; Motor Control: Compromised; Cognitive Processing Functions: Compromised; Nerve Circuitry: Significantly Impaired; Comms Systems: Offline; Peripheral Sensornet: Offline; EM Sensors: Offline; Core Temperature 80% of normal._ ]**

Oh _slag_. That was very _very_ not good.

“Ratch?” Drift squirmed, trying to see if he could find a way to free himself. “’M gettin’ too cold. Gonna start shutting down soon ‘f I can’ get warm.”

Despite having his more delicate sensory systems shut down because of the cold, Drift was still close enough to Ratchet that the Medical scan made his protoform tingle. He writhed in the little space available, giggling helplessly.

“Hold still, you glitch!” Ratchet snarled into his audial flare. “You’ll bring the rest of the blasted _planet_ down on us!”

“Sorry.” Drift stopped moving immediately, wilting before Ratchet’s anger. “It tickled.”

Another warm gust of air filled the rock-free spaces around his frame and Drift distantly felt the medic’s EM Field press a sense of apology against his spark. Now that he couldn’t feel Ratchet’s EM Field properly Drift realised just _how much_ he relied on Fields to clarify the intent of another mech’s words.

“My arms are pinned so I can’t plug in to check your systems. You’ll have to tell me your Systems Status verbally.” Ratchet was still speaking slowly and carefully. “Just read them off your HUD.”

Confused, Drift did as he was asked. He read each warning on his HUD slowly and carefully so he didn’t slur. The speedster knew that he wasn’t precisely rational at the moment, but it was fairly obvious to him that they were trapped with no way to free themselves. Reading his Systems Status out to Ratchet was as good a way as any to pass the time, besides being useful.

When he reached the Core Temperature report [ ** _79% of Normal_** ] Ratchet made a little hissing noise through his denta that was really uncomfortable that close to his audial flares. Forgetting _again_ that he was currently pinned under several tons of rock, Drift tried to flinch away from the sound.

“What was that about?” Ratchet demanded, sounding more like his normal cranky self.

“Ssssss-noise. Hurts m’audials.” Drift mumbled.

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” The Medic apologised.

“’S ok.” It was getting harder to focus on the conversation. “Know y’ didn’ mean it.”

Drift’s processors were beginning to wander in a way he felt should probably be scary, except it was hard to feel anything except the aching cold that was sinking deeper into his protoform. Even Ratchet’s nice warm frame wasn’t doing more than keep his front lukewarm. With all the rock jabbing into him Drift couldn’t pull his armour in to preserve what little heat he had left, so the large gaps allowed more air to circulate and steal precious heat from him.

He was so tired. It was nice to feel Ratchet’s spark pulsing so close to his own.

Drift sighed out through his vents, losing more precious warmth. He wished his sensors and processors were functioning properly so he could feel Ratchet’s field and frame _properly_. He’d like to be able to remember this in full, to record it in a high-definition file and pull it out on nights when he couldn’t recharge.

Except for the cold, of course. He’d definitely leave _that_ out.

The cold was awful. His armour was beginning to feel as if someone had pranked him by stealing it all, freezing it and then putting it back on him.

The swordsmech tried to forget about the cold, pushing it out of his processors like he used to do with hunger and pain and loneliness, focusing instead on the dim feeling of a comforting sparkbeat so close to his own.

Exhausted beyond belief, Drift stubbornly ignored the annoying tickle of another medical scan and began to slip into recharge.


	5. On Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet struggles to keep Drift conscious until help arrives.

# Chapter Five – On Ice

By now Ratchet was himself beginning to feel the effects of the frigid temperature at the bottom of this sinkhole. Even with the buffering effects of the Medical programs he was running Ratchet was intensely worried about the condition of the more cold-prone speedster pinning him. He ran another scan over the Speedster’s swiftly cooling frame, mentally cursing at the temperature readout it came back with.

_Core Temperature: 23% below Standard._

By now Drift’s fluids would be thickening and moving more sluggishly through his lines. This would exacerbate the sleepy feeling caused by the cold rock which surrounded them and inexorably sucking the heat from their frames. It would be even worse worse for the Speedster with the way his frametype accidentally expelled heat it couldn’t afford to lose when he was at rest.

If Drift gave in to exhaustion and allowed himself to fall into recharge _now_ he would automatically drop into stasis. Involuntary stasis would shut down all of the sppedster’s systems except the essential few required to keeping him functioning. If he didn’t stay onlin to make conscious demands of his frame, to execute commands which would create some precious extra warmth, the massive systems shutdown of Stasis would only make the situation _worse_. Drift’s coolant and oil would becoming a gummy mess clogging his lines and triggering a massive systems failure resulting in death long before help could find them.

_Frag frag frag frag FRAG!_

“Drift?”

No response.

_Answer me, dammit!_

“Drift!” Louder this time, with anger masking the growing fear his medical programming couldn’t completely reign in.

The Speedster mumbled something unintelligible, nuzzling his faceplates sideways into Ratchet’s neck cables. The medic firmly ignored the unprofessional and completely irrelevant little flutter in his spark and resorted to cruelty as the kindest option in their situation by shouting directly into the Speedster’s audial flare.

“ _DRIFT!_ ”

Drift whined in obvious pain, trying to get away from the source of the noise despite being pinned firmly against it. Their armour ground together obscenely, Drift’s desperate squirming making the rubble pinning them creak and shift ominously. The sound frightened Drift back into stillness again, for which Ratchet was extremely grateful.

“Wha’ wassat for?” The swordsmech sounded sulky, but at least he was still conscious.

“Drift, you have to stay awake.” Ratchet deliberately spoke a little louder than necessary. “If you let yourself recharge now you’ll go into stasis. At the rate your frams is cooling, if you go into stasis your coolant and oil lines will clog up before we can get back to the ship. You know what will happen then, right?”

“’ll die.” Drift didn’t sound too concerned.

“Exactly.” Ratchet’s tone was dry, devoid of the worry that stabbed through him at Drift’s blasé acknowledgement of his own mortality. “So, what I need you to do is stay awake and talk to me so I know you’re online. Do you think you can do that?”

“Sure.” Drift agreed easily, the hum of his engine picking up a little. “Whatddya wanna talk about?”

Ratchet’s processors spun in a dizzy little dance of confusion for a moment, the medical programming thrown for a loop. What they talked about wasn’t important, so long as Drift was online and speaking. All that mattered was that Drift stayed online, even if he was reading one of the old human phonebooks. He hadn’t counted on being the one to come up with the topic of conversation! It was a hilarious oversight which showed that the cold was beginning to affect his own processors.

“I honestly have no idea.” The medic admitted. “It would be best if you did most of the talking, though. That way I know you’re still online and I haven’t bored you to death.”

A smothered snorting noise came from the Speedster accompanied by a rush of air from his vents which sent little puffs of fine grit around the few pockets of free space around their frames. Well, if Drift could find _that_ funny then his cognitive functions seemed to be working moderately well.

“If it’ll stop you from makin’ ‘ny more bad jokes li’ tha’ then ’ll sing you every alphabet song th’ humans ever invented.” Drift nuzzled his faceplates deeper into the medic’s neck, chilly nasal ridge nudging in between high-current cable bundles in search of warmth. “I hope y’ were only jokin’, though. You’re _never_ boring, Ratch’. Never _ever_.”

The affectionate attention made Ratchet _extremely_ glad that they were pinned in such a way that Drift couldn’t see his face. Embarrassed warmth was flooding outwards from the medic’s spark to warm his faceplates. Ratchet could _swear_ he felt his chevron tingling, although that was probably a side-effect of his peripheral sensory circuits shutting down as his own frame cooled. His self-consciousness was swiftly overridden by the clinical note that Drift’s slurring was becoming more severe and the speedster’s EM Field no longer extended far enough to communicate his emotional state.

“When we get back to the Lost Light I’ll spot you a drink and treat you to a lecture on the proper maintenance and sharpening of scalpels.” Ratchet said dryly, leaning his helm sideways to bring his own warm faceplating into contact with the top of Drift’s cold helm. “You’ll change your mind then.”

“Nuh-uh.” Helm kibble scraped audibly against the rock as Drift shook his head fiercely, olfactory sensor rubbing against the cables of the medic’s neck. “I won’t.”

Ratchet rolled his optics at the slab of rock that formed their temporary ceiling.

“A batch of homemade rust sticks says you do.”

“You’re on.” A happy rumble came from Drift’s engine. “I hope you have plen’y of iron an’ copper oxide. You’re gonna _lose,_ Ratch’.”

“You sound pretty confident.” This was pointless banter, but so long as it kept Drift talking Ratchet didn’t particularly care. “Are you sure you’re not _over_ confident? I’ll have you know that when it comes to giving boring-as-slag lectures, I learned from the _best_.”

Drift’s systems were running too sluggishly for him to laugh properly, but he gave it a good try. The vibrations of Drift’s engine transmitted easily to Ratchet’s hands where they were pressed between streamlined armour plating and his own glass chestplate. It didn’t feel right, the pattern lurching and uneven. Drift’s pistons were beginning to catch as the fluids which normally kept them sliding smoothly thickened as they cooled along with his frame, impeding the function of parts needed to keep him alive.

“Naaaah.” Drift playfully nudged his forehelm against Ratchet’s jawguard. “I love lis’ning to you. Doesn’ matter _what_ you’re talking about.”

The Speedster hummed happily into Ratchet’s neck cabling while the nonplussed medic reset his optics several times, struggling to find a response. Drift was _definitely_ off his rocker. Hopefully it was just a temporary effect that would clear when they got him warmed up again.

They _would_ get him warmed up again.

“Your voice is nice, Ratch’.” Drift continued, sounding as though he genuinely meant every word he said. “Has layers an’ iss nice an’ low. Doesn’ hurt my audials when you yell. ‘S kinda fuzzy, not hard an’ sharp or flat th’ way lot’sa mechs go when they shou’.”

“That is the weirdest nice thing anyone has ever said about me.” Ratchet’s spark gave a little lurch and he was suddenly very glad Rewind wasn’t there to see the expression on his faceplates. “Thanks, kid.”

“You’re welcome.” Drift sounded absolutely delighted, even though he was essentially dead to standard EMF sensors. “‘S gonna be nice. I’ve wann’ed t’ hang out wi’ you for _ages_ bu’ didn’ know how to ask. Now I ge’ tha’ _and_ rus’sticks.”

“As the humans say; don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Drift. We’ve still gotta get you out of this hole in one piece.” There was a sinking feeling in the medic’s spark he did his best to ignore.

“I’m no’ worr’ed.” Drift mumbled into Ratchet’s neck. “I know ’ll be fine coz _you’re_ here.”

For the life of him, Ratchet couldn’t work out what was going on in the other mech’s processor _or_ how to reply to what he saw as a supremely illogical statement. Nothing came into his processors and the other mech didn’t seem willing to give him an easy out by breaking the silence himself. In fact, Drift was quiet for so long that Ratchet was about to verbally poke him again when the swordsmech beat him to it.

“You always save me. You save everyone. You’re really awesome.”

“Not as awesome as you think, kid.” Ratchet was _definitely_ embarrassed. “And I _haven’t_ been able to save everyone. Believe me, I tried. Sometimes it’s just not possible.”

“’m sorry ‘bout that.” Drift said, pressing what parts of his frame he could move against the medic’s plating. “Wan’ed t’ say sorry but didn’ know how.”

Drift sighed through his vents, continuing to speak before Ratchet could work out what to say.

“I’m sorry. I wish I had gone ba’ t’ see you. Almos’ did a coupl’a times. Jus’ ended up talkin’ m’self ou’ of it. Didn’ trus’ anyone an’ didn’ b’lieve anyone _would_ wanna help someone like me. Wish I could go back an’ kick my aft. If anyone could be trus’ed ‘s _you_ , Ratch’.

After his little speech Drift fell silent. Ratchet didn’t know what to say, what anyone could say to an admission like that. He settled for pressing his cheekplating against the icy top of Drift’s helm and hoping the speedster had enough peripheral nerve circuity left online that he could feel it. They stayed that way for long breems, listening to eachother’s systems. Ratchet could only tell the other mech’s ventilation system was still running because every now and then he could feel air move over his chevron, but now it wasn’t much warmer than the gases already filling the little pockets of rock-free space around them.

That _wasn’t_ good.

He scanned Drift again and his worry spiked when the speedster didn’t so much as twitch or complain about the tickle, pressing mutely closer closer to the warmth of Ratchet’s frame.

_Core Temperature 29% below Standard._

**FRAG**.

Ratchet was opening his mouthplates to ask Drift another question, keep him talking _keep him alive_ , when one of the best comm notifications he’d ever received popped up on his HUD.

**RODIMUS: [Ratchet? We’re right over you. We’ll have you out very soon.]**

_Somehow_ they’d been found. Rodimus and whoever else it was must be directly over the pit for his comm message to be that clear and ungarbled.

**RATCHET: [Please hurry. We’re pinned and Drift is dangerously hypothermic. Core temperature less than three-quarters of normal. No major injuries I have been able to discern.]**

**RODIMUS: [Is he online?]**

**RATCHET: [Yes. For now.]**

**RODIMUS: [Excellent. Keep him talking, ok?]**

**RATCHET: [Just hurry up.]**

Relief flooded the medic’s frame. They had been found.

The entire comm exchange took less than a minute but another quick scan as soon as it ended revealed that Drift’s internal temperature had already dropped by another half-percent. With the nearness of rescue freeing Ratchet of the need to conserve fuel, he allowed the medical programming to kick his engines up and alter his cooling systems to the point that it turned his entire frame into a giant heater.

They were _so close_ to freedom.

“Drift? Help’s here. It won’t be long now.” Ratchet said loudly, pitching his vocaliser up to where it had to be painful so close to those sensitive audial flares.

No response.

Drift was as coldly unresponsive as the rocks confining them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your and if you fucking hate me right now ^.^


	6. From the Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help arrives in the nick of time.

# Chapter Six – From the Pit

“Drift? DRIFT! If you’re recharging on me I _swear_ I’m going to invent the Cybertronian version of itching powder and put it in your wax. Answer me, slag you!”

A painfully loud and angry-scared sounding voice far too close to his helm dragged an extremely reluctant Drift back from the verge of recharge. He was _so_ _tired_ and the frame under his was _so_ nice and warm, why wasn’t he allowed to recharge? They’d been found, right? _Surely_ it was okay for him to recharge now. You know, while the rescue party dug them out. Besides, Drift knew it was going to hurt like Pit when proper energon flow was restored to the lower half of his frame and he’d rather _not_ be awake for it.

“ **DRIFT!!** ”

That was Ratchet’s shout alright.

Did he have to reply?

If he didn’t want to discover what being covered in itching powder _really_ felt like?

Definitely _._

Ratchet didn’t make idle threats.

The speedster felt heavy, far heavier than he could remember feeling since the gutters of Rodion. Back then, starvation had his frame cannibalising itself to keep his stubborn Spark in its chamber. He was too tired to move, even though he didn’t feel all that cold any more.

That was probably a bad thing.

Someone was swearing angrily, very close to his head.

Oh. Right. That was Ratchet. Drift hadn’t answered him yet.

What could he say?

If he was being honest, Drift had no idea what was appropriate to say to someone after you’d just apologised to them for screwing up several thousand years of their functioning by being very good at killing. Besides, Ratchet sounded like he was already pretty angry. It wouldn’t be a good idea to slag Ratchet off even more by saying the wrong thing OR letting a nearly terminal case of embarrassment freeze his vocaliser.

 “Mmmm?” Drift made a rather crackly questioning noise.

It was probably the safest response.

“Slag it, kid! I thought you’d gone into recharge. You _can’t_ do that now. Not when we’re so close to getting out of this hole.” The undertones of panic in the other mech’s voice gave Drift enough guilty strength to keep recharge at bay.

“’M’wake.” Drift forced through his sluggish vocaliser. “Lis’nin’ t’ you.”

“I’d rather _you_ do the talking, remember?” Ratchet was using that special angry voice he used when he was relieved but didn’t want to show it.

“Dunno wha’ t’ say.”

Speaking was taking so much energy. _Primus_ he was tired. Drift wanted nothing more than to slip into recharge like this; Ratchet’s Spark so close to his, with the medic’s voice in his audial. But Ratchet wanted him to stay online so Drift would try to stay awake.

“Y’okay Ratch’?” If he was this cold, surely Ratchet would be feeling the effects by now as well. “Y’ no’ col’?”

“I’m a little cooler than I should be, but nowhere near as bad as you.” It didn’t _sound_ like he was lying to make Drift feel better, but since Drift himself wasn’t Medic-trained he couldn’t tell. “A hot shower will fix me up. You’re gonna need a bit more than that.”

Something shifted over them, sending a shower of dust, loose soil and stones into their little protected space. Drift stayed limp, too tired to react while Ratchet tensed under him, engine whining with stress. It would probably be a good idea to distract Ratchet from the possibility that they might _actually_ end up squished now if someone botched the rescue.

“Oil bahf?” Drift asked hopefully. He tried to push his his EM Field out to brush Ratchet’s without much luck and settled for purring instead. “Oil bahf woul’ b’ nice.”

Ratchet actually chuckled a little at that. The sound brought more warmth to Drift’s Spark than the promised oil bath would do. Cooler air swirled around them, bringing in a fresh load of dust as the feeling of oppressive weight pushing down on his frame eased a little

“Yeah, you’re gonna get one after we get cleaned up.” Ratchet said. Drift could feel warm cheekplates pressing against his cold helm. “It’s standard treatment, along with warm Energon and coolant.”

“Why _warm_ coolan’?” Drift was seriously confused.

The swordsmech was absolutely certain that even if his processors had been at full power the concept of _warmed_ _coolant_ still wouldn’t have made sense.

“Your frame will need free-flowing coolant to keep you from overheating as we warm you back up.” Ratchet explained. “The stuff in your lines will take a while to return to its normal consistency and won’t be able to do its job properly until it does.”

“Okay.”

Drift pressed his frame as firmly as he could into Ratchet’s, clenching his denta on a keen as he felt the rock slab pinning his lower half get lifted away. It _hurt_ as nothing had since he’d come online down here with the majority of his sensornet non-functional. Compressed nervecircuits and pinched lines released abruptly, sending an _excruciatingly_ uncomfortable flux through his backed-up systems.

Suddenly Ratchet’s arms were around him instead of being trapped between their frames; warm metal bands holding Drift securely to keep him from thrashing against the agonizing churning of his internals. It felt like it took _forever_ for his internal fluids to settle and re-establish equilibrium in his lines, a small eternity of full-frame pain that made Syk withdrawal feel like a good time.

His vocaliser failed before Drift even realised he was screaming. That was good-ish; he _really_ didn’t want to blow Ratchet’s audios out. Over the unhealthy whine coming from his own engine Drift could hear the medic speaking. He couldn’t make out what Ratchet was saying, but the low voice rumbling away next to his audial flare and the sturdy pulsing of the medic’s Spark helped Drift endure until his the pressure in his fluid lines restabilised.

Thumps and swearing announced the arrival of their rescue party, strange hands pulling Drift from Ratchet’s embrace. He was quickly and efficiently cocooned in thermal blankets, wrapped up so tightly he could barely move and shoved into a large someone’s hold. Unable to turn his head, all Drift could see when he forced his optics online was the underside of Ultra Magnus’ chinplate as the SIC hefted the smaller mech in his arms for the trip back to the Lost Light.

Wait, where was Ratchet? Was he ok? Drift couldn’t see the medic _or_ feel his sparkpulse anymore. He started squirming. Stupid blankets. Why was he wrapped in blankets?

Ultra Magnus responded to Drift’s feeble escape attempts by tightening his grip.

“R’ch’t?” Drift asked desperately, his vocaliser cracking.

“I’m here kid. Calm down.”

“Can’ see you.” The words out sounding far more sparkling-like than Drift intended.

An aggrieved sigh came from somewhere nearby and abruptly Magnus shifted his grip, rotating Drift so that the medic’s gloriously grumpy faceplates came into view. He was also wrapped in blankets, though not in as many or anywhere _near_ as tightly confined as Drift. That wasn’t fair.

Ratchet was standing under his own power.

Elation burned through Drift, his Spark trying to leap out of its chamber to embrace the cranky dust-covered medic. He’d done it. He’d kept Ratchet from being hurt when the roof of the sinkhole collapsed. Frustratingly, Drift’s  EM Field _still_ wasn’t cooperating. So he settled for forcing his numb faceplates into a smile instead.

It was very, _very_ good to see Ratchet standing.

“Is that better?” Ratchet demanded, raising an optical ridge.

“Yeessssss.” Drift said happily. His vocaliser glitched, dragging the word out.

“Ok everyone, let’s get back to the ship and get these two warmed up.” Rodimus snapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More cuteness incoming. Dopey!Drift is just FAR TOO MUCH FUN TO WRITE!


	7. Thaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safe and sound on the Lost Light, Drift gets his 'Oilbaff'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last proper chapter. An epilogue will follow for added cuteness.

# Chapter Seven –Thaw

They were bundled back to the Lost Light and into Medbay in record time.

Drift squirmed and whined whenever Ratchet moved out of sight so the CMO was walking in front of Ultra Magnus and his blanket-wrapped burden, trying not to be run down by the SIC. Ratchet continually scanned Drift to monitor the speedster’s slowly increasing core temperature, forcing his numb legs to move fast enough to keep up with Rodimus.

The thermal blankets were doing their work beautifully when combined with the pace Rodimus set and Ratchet’s own temperature was recovering swiftly. By the time he had the grime scrubbed off he would be more-or-less back to normal.

Drift was another story.

Right now he was quietly singing some random Earth song to reassure the mechs around him that he was still online. What little meaning Ratchet could unravel from the intense metaphor abuse that comprised the lyrics, it appeared to have something about love and drowning.

 _He’s_ definitely _in the processor-shutdown stage._

Since they had been freed from the cave-in Drift’s core temperature had come up slightly, but it was only in the realms of two or three full percentage points. It was nowhere _near_ high enough for it to be safe for the speedster to give in to his frame’s demands for recharge, so Ratchet endured the disturbing lyrics which meant that his patient was still online.

“D’you mind switching songs, Drift?” Rodimus called back over his shoulder. “That one’s pretty fragging morbid.”

Without missing a beat, Drift moved on to something sunshine-themed and repetitive. It wasn’t the greatest choice in the universe, but at least it wasn’t as unsettling as his previous song. Rodimus gave the CMO a massive grin and wink that Ratchet definitely did _not_ want an explanation for. Ratchet stared at him, optics wide with astonishment.

 _That’s it. They’ve_ all _gone fragging crazy._

To Ratchet’s great surprise, Swerve was waiting in the Medbay when they arrived. He had a tray with him that had several tankards from the bar sitting on it. A deep draught of air over medical chemoreceptors revealed the distinctive ionised tang of warmed Energon and the vaguely oily undertones of consumable coolant.

“I heard what you needed and got it ready for you.” Swerve said, holding one of the Energon-filled tankards out to Ratchet. “That way you two can start getting clean and warmed up faster.”

Ratchet gratefully slid a hand through the wide handle of the stein, wrapping cold-stiffened fingers around it before lifting it to his face for a careful sip. It was somewhere between lowgrade and midgrade for energy content, flavoured with something that seemed to help the warmth of the fuel spread through his lines.

“I threw in a little silver and hydronium; it should make it go down a bit easier.” Swerve explained, visor flickering. “Ok well I should get going now. See ya!”

Swerve was out the door and gone before Ratchet could gather his scattered wits and thank the metallurgist-cum-barkeep.

_Eh, Drift can do that later._

The Medical programs were still dominating Ratchet’s awareness, automatically monitoring Drift’s status with both active scans and passive observation. They pinged a warning to Ratchet’s HUD and he directed Ultra Magnus to prop Drift on a medberth so they could help the speedster consume the fuel and coolant Swerve had provided. Rodimus had stayed, helpfully bringing the tray of fuel over before leaning against a spare berth until he was needed again.

Watching the way Magnus handled with the rather inflexible cocoon Drift had become with great amusement, Ratchet stolidly downed the rest of his energon before picking up one of the flagons of coolant at random. He needed to get himself sorted out quickly so he would be able to ensure they got Drift warmed up safely. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the SIC, it would simply make things easier to have one more fully-functioning mech on hand to deal with Drift’s situation.

It was a _very_ good thing Ratchet had decided to do that.

It took one taste of the silver-enriched energon for Drift to become a snarling, thrashing monster. He snapped wildly, pointed denta just missing Ultra Magnus’ hand before catching the edge of the tankard and hanging on for dear life. The blankets binding the swordsmech suddenly seemed tissue-thin as he snarled and tried futilely to yank the energon from Magnus’ grip. Drift’s engine rumbled in what was definitely a threat despite the irregular and unhealthy sound of his pistons fighting the semi-congealed fluids of his engine block.

Ultra Magnus was torn between shock and fear, wide optics fixed on the cocoon of deadly fighter that was bristling in his lap. Slightly manic hooting drew Ratchet’s attention briefly from his patient to discover Rodimus bent over, supporting himself on an empty medberth as he laughed himself silly. He had obviously been expecting something like this and for some reason _hadn’t bothered_ to warn Magnus that Drift obviously got funny around fuel.

_Insufferable glitch._

“Oi! Enough of that!” Ratchet fearlessly breached Drift’s personal space and tapped the swordsmech smartly on the top of his helm with his empty tankard. “You cut that out and drink it like a civilised mech or I’m tubing it straight into your tank.”

Drift couldn’t possibly have enough of his sensory systems online to read Ratchet’s EM Field, but he subsided and consented to allow Ultra Magnus to feed him both energon in careful sips. Ratchet stared him down throughout the entire process, daring the younger mech to act up again. Despite bared denta and a continuous threatening rumble from his engine, Drift behaved himself.

They almost got a repeat performance with the coolant, but one raised optical ridge from Ratchet quelled him.

This time Ultra Magnus flatly refused to put his hands anywhere near Drift’s faceplates, so it was Ratchet who held the flagon to Drift’s lipplates with both hands and carefully controlled the rate at which he consumed the fluid. As Drift ingested the coolant the growl of his engine took on a purring undertone, his optics not leaving Ratchet’s so long as the tankard in the medic’s hands had anything in it.

An automatic scan revealed that Drift’s frame was warming at a steady rate and his autorepair had come online, getting to work on the minor damage sustained in the fall. By the time they had the speedster’s core temperature back to normal all that would be left for Ratchet to do would be sorting out the out-of-kilter tension wires and getting some of the more serious dents out of his armour.

He wasn’t looking forward to it, Ratchet reflected as together all three of them carefully unwrapped Drift and steered him towards the Medbay washracks. The CMO was absolutely exhausted. A strut-deep lethargy from of his own mild case of hypothermia was creeping up on him behind the layers of medical coding keeping him on his feet. It wasn’t the first time he’d hidden just how worn-out he was behind those protocols.

Sorting Drift’s tension wires and double-checking for hidden fractures would be the last things he did before falling faceplate-first onto his berth and recharging for about a week.

Drift was absently humming the melody of his last song again; apparently unaware that he no longer needed to do so in order to let Ratchet know that he was still online. They were both filthy, the extra help of Ultra Magnus and Rodimus who followed them into the washrack was greatly appreciated. Letting the SIC deal with Drift, Rodimus grabbed a flexible hose and wordlessly helped Ratchet with his own clean-up. The medic let his field say what he was too tired to express, passing it off as his usual cranky front with the ease of long practice.

It shouldn’t have surprised Ratchet that the Captain was so skilled at efficiently flushing pebbles and loose debris out from under armour. Speedster builds with his kind of adventurous streak didn’t always stick to paved roads, after all. From what he could tell anything flat goes, and sometimes things that _weren’t_ so flat as well. All of which ended up creating unnecessary work for Ratchet.

 _At least_ this _time Drift and I were the only casualties._

Ratchet’s own core temperature had returned to the normal range by the time they were both clean and dry enough for the Captain and SIC to herd them gently towards the Lost Light’s communal oilbath. The place had been vacated just for them, quiet and peaceful the way Ratchet preferred.

It seemed that _nobody_ was willing to risk Ratchet’s wrath after having been dropped down a sinkhole and left there for half the planet’s rotation with an increasingly delirious Drift.

Speaking of Drift, he was currently chirping ‘Oilbath’ from his seat in Ultra Magnus’ arms with the delight and enthusiasm of a sparkling.

Ratchet rubbed his nasal ridge, using his palm to hide his twitching moughtplates.

While Ultra Magnus was carefully lowering the swordsmech into a floor-level tub he revealed that everyone was under the impression that Drift had been reciting Spectralist rites from memory in order to stay awake and Ratchet was fuming fit to eviscerate the next person who so much as looked at him funny.

 _Where in the Pit would they get_ that _idea?!_

It was still a welcome mercy that Ratchet wouldn’t have to deal with the rest of the crew fussing over them like a flock of nesting cyberhawks. Rodimus was bad enough all by himself! The Captain _more_ than made up for Ultra Magnus’ quiet and efficient help with all his fussing, ensuring Drift and Ratchet were seated comfortably next to each other (in case Drift needed closer monitoring, apparently) and repeatedly reminding Ratchet that he was only a comm away for real now that they were back on the ship and he would bring more coolant for them in a joor or two.

_Too tired to tell him to shut up. I’m getting old._

As Ultra Magnus propelled the Captain bodily out of the room and slid the door closed Ratchet ran another scan over Drift. The swordsmech’s core temperature was at 90% of normal and still rising in a safely controlled manner.

It was safe to let him recharge now.

The CMO released an exhausted sigh and immediately flinched away from Drift as he wriggled violently, splashing heated oil everywhere. The younger mech’s optics were offline but his faceplates were scrunched up in a very interesting way.

“What the slag, Drift?!” Ratchet demanded, shaking his helm to rid his faceplates of oil splatters.

“ _Told_ you; th’ scans tickle.” Drift said sulkily. “Did y’ not lis’en to me?”

Ratchet rolled his optics (a bad habit from Earth) and made an irate noise. It was hard to hold onto his habitual grumpiness with the way the oil was warming and relaxing sore wires, creeping deeper into his substructure and soothing away the aches of the fall. He sighed and fluffed his armour out, allowing the heated liquid better access to his protoform. Leaning back against the edge of the tub Ratchet tipped his helm back to rest on the supportive surface. He was so slagging _tired_.

“I forgot, that’s all. Sorry Drift.” Ratchet thought he saw Drift twitch a little at his apology. “Anyway, your core temperature is high enough that it’s safe for you to recharge now. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to check your struts and get the dents out.”

Oil sloshed and the next thing Ratchet knew there was a cool frame pressed against his side, Drift wrapping his arms around the medic’s waist before resting his head on Ratchet’s shoulder.

“You’re a good pillow.” Drift mumbled over the surprised sputter of Ratchet’s engine. “Wake me up when ’s time to get out, ‘kay?”

Ratchet stared up at the roof with wide optics as Drift’s systems cycled down into recharge. The kid probably had processor damage or something. He made a mental not to check for that when checking struts and armour later.

Just as he completed that thought, the CMO’s medical programs took the sound of Drift’s recharging systems as their cue to shut down. Patient is out of danger, job done, goodnight. His frame lost the forced alertness the programs enforced, going limp as the aftereffects of the day overtook him with a vengeance.

If Drift hadn’t been propping him up, Ratchet was sure he would have slid right on down into the pool and not had the energy to haul himself out. Instead, he sagged against the side of the tub, grateful for the support the younger mech provided. By now the speedster’s EM Field was beginning to resurface, lapping against his own with a sleepy contentment that didn’t help matters at _all_.

Shutting his optics off to better focus on the self-repair notices scrolling across his HUD, Ratchet didn’t even notice when he followed Drift into recharge.

 

~V~V~V~V~

 

Precisely one point five joors after he left Ratchet and Drift soaking in the oil bath, Rodimus returned a delivery of coolant in his hands and Rewind following along out of simple curiosity. He couldn’t _believe_ he’d been stupid enough to send his best friend and the CMO down without double-checking the geology scans of the area. Cybertronian-eating sinkholes _and_ a massive layer of permafrost?! So not good.

Next time he’d _triple_ check.

Rewind opened the door using the command override Rodimus pinged him, then stood there gaping. Curious, Rodimus poked his head around the doorframe and couldn’t restrain his grin at what he saw.

Both mechs were deep in recharge, completely oblivious to the world around them. Drift’s helm rested on Ratchet’s shoulder, wearing a little half-smile that made the deadly mech look positively angelic.

As for Ratchet, his helm was tilted sideways, cheekplates pressed against the top of the speedster’s helm. The CMO looked more relaxed and peaceful than Rodimus had ever seen him.

Quietly, Rodimus crept into the room and left the tray with its flagons of coolant within easy reach of the medic’s Drift-free side. Smiling to himself, Rodimus motioned Rewind to wait for him. He used the ship’s systems to set an automatic message on a timer to wake Ratchet in a few breems before leaving the exhausted pair to their recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drift was singing 'Drowned' by Tim Minchin and changed to 'You Are My Sunshine' by Jimmy Davis and Charlie Mitchell.  
> I think at one point I had about 18 or so wiki tabs open researching organic chemistry to find out what Swerve would have been likely to put in the Energon for Drift and Ratchet :/
> 
> How many hints does a Ratchet need? Answer: ALL OF THEM.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodimus goes looking for answers and makes amends with Ratchet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have mentioned earlier that this fic is set in the first few pages of MTMTE #4.  
> I assumed it would take the Lost Light a few days to reach Messatine, and as they are heading towards a medical outpost on the edge of DJD territory that is experiencing freakishly high rates of patient mortality they (Rodimus) might attempt to delay what seems to be imminent death with a little detour.

# Epilogue

“So, did you tell him?”

Rodimus’ faceplates entered Drift’s field of vision from a truly awkward angle. The Captain had somehow managed to sneak up beside Drift without the swordsmech noticing and tilted himself sideways over the arm of Drift’s chair to get right up in his face.

Drift yelped and shoved the red-and-gold mech away violently, sending him crashing into the wall. He kicked his chair in the direction of the threat and half-drew both shortswords before the identity of his ambusher registered in his processor.

“DAMMIT, RODIMUS!” Drift was angry at himself for not noticing the other mech sneaking up on him, slamming his swords away. “ _Stop_ taking advantage of my slagged-up sensornet or I WILL end up stabbing you.”

Rodimus was laughing too hard to respond properly, half-formed glyphs that sounded like ‘your face’ ‘priceless’ and ‘ow’ punctuating the gales of laughter coming from under Drift’s smashed office chair. The Captain’s EM Field held the barest trace of apology which was almost completely buried buy his amusement.

“It will happen to you one day; and when it does I’ll be _waiting_.” The swordsmech threatened, glaring at the trembling pile of metal that was his Commanding Officer and the remains of his chair.

“Pfft, whatever.” Rodimus said, pushing himself to a sitting position and cocking his helm, looking up at Drift. “So? Did you?”

“Did I…?” Drift was confused for all of half a klick, his faceplates and audial flares becoming warm and tingly with embarrassment as he figured out what Rodimus was talking about. “Umm, _no_. I was too busy trying not to _freeze_ to death.”

Rodimus let his helm drop back against the wall with a loud **_thunk_** , making an exasperated noise through his vents. Drift’s still-numb peripheral sensors couldn’t pick up the change in airflow which reduced the effectiveness of the other speedster’s little strop.

“ _Driiiiiiiiiiift_. That was the whole _point_ of sending you two down together!” The Captain sounded more exasperated than Drift had ever heard him. “I don’t think you deserve this now.”

Rodimus kicked some pieced of wrecked chair further from where he was settled against the wall and pulled an oblong object from his subspace. Drift’s optics tracked it, his head tilting backwards and forwards as he tried to figure out what the Captain was holding. Rodimus amused himself for a few moments by waving the mysterious item backwards and forwards to watch Drift’s optics track it.

Before the sworsdmech got annoyed with him (again) Rodimus tossed the obkect to Drift who snatched it out of the air and examined it curiously.

Flat, rectangular, a _frame?_

It was a picture frame.

Drift’s jaw dropped when he found himself looking at a high-quality image capture of both himself and Ratchet curled up together in the largest oilbath, aparrently asleep. He was snuggled up to Ratchet’s side -something he vaguely remembered doing- while the CMO was using Drift’s helm as a pillow. The Swordsmech definitely didn’t remember _that!_

Drift lightly stroked the glassteel protecting the image with a fingertip, taking in every detail of an embrace he could only partially remember.

“Wow, Roddy.” Drift looked up from the framed image with bright optics, grinning fit to crack his cheekpieces. “Thank you.”

“You can thank me by cutting the turbopuppy optics and _talking_ to him.” Rodimus said casually, picking himself up off the floor and leaving before Drift could reply. “Your mooncalfing is driving me up the fragging _wall_.”

 

~V~V~V~V~V~V~

 

“Hey Ratchet, you in here?”

The CMO looked up from his paperwork to see a familiar spiky red-and-gold helm peering into his office. He frowned at the unexpected visitor, immediately on guard.

For Rodimus to have willingly sought him out the problem was either Command-related or something personal the speedster didn’t want anyone overhearing. Unfazed by the standard Ratchet scowl, Rodimus propped himself comfortably against the doorframe with his hands behind his back, smiling nervously at the medic.

“What is it?” Ratchet masked his lingering fatigue from the brush with hypothermia with slightly more than his usual level of grump, pushing back from his desk to focus on the mech in his doorway. “We’re setting down on Delphi in two joors.”

“Yeeeah. About that.” Rodimus rubbed at his optical ridge, “I’m sending Drift and Pipes down with you. They both need the experience and between them they _should_ have the right combination skills to deal with pretty much anything you could run into.”

Ratchet met Rodimus’ self-satisfied smirk with a stiff glare.

“You’re trying to get me _killed_.” The medic said flatly. “Don’t you remember what happened the  _last_ time you sent me planetside with Drift?”

At least Rodimus had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I’m sorry it took us so long to find you.” The younger mech held Ratchet’s gaze with honest apology in both optics and Field. “I brought you something to make up for it. You know, since it was kinda my fault for not checking the geology scans carefully enough.”

Rodimus crossed the distance to Ratchet in three long steps, pulling his remaining hand out from behind his back and awkwardly shoving the small, flat package he’d been hiding into the medic’s hands. As soon as Ratchet had a firm grasp on the package Rodimus retreated, yelling something about ‘launch in two!’ as he fled the CMO’s office.

_What the slag?_

Giving up on deciphering Rodimus’ behaviour before he developed a processor ache, Ratchet inspected the gift, turning it over in his hands as he shook his head in bemusement. The wrapping of choice appeared to be re-used supply packaging, so he simply ripped it open and let the contents fall onto the surface of his desk.

It landed face-up; simple strips of white-enameled metal created a frame around a printed image capture of Drift snuggled up to a familiar-looking mecha, both of whom were napping in an oil pool. The peaceful expression on the faceplates of the other mech was so utterly foreign to the mech wearing it that it actually took Ratchet a full breem to recognise himself.

The corner of his mouthplates quirked upwards and he nudged the framed picture into an empty drawer, making sure it stayed face-up as he did so before forcing his attention back to the upcoming mission.

“Slagging kids.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, Armcontrolnerve! Your fluff is all done :D  
> I hope you had a good holiday season and that 2015 treats you well ^.^


End file.
